Have we a church here?
Why does it thrust its stone roots down,
Down through the loam of memories?
Into the bowels of gold and fire then
Leap up into arching branches,
Grey and glistening trumpet notes of stone,
Blaring out to come and wonder,
Wonder how these dancing trees
Were first bound fast in arches
This forest floor is rich in reverence
The dark earth hummed with faith
Long before these trumpet trees took root,
Among the lumbered trunks where
The old faith rotted
And leached into the soil.
Swamped by the rippling stone I see
A beckoning glimmer in a crystal
That is too dark
And altogether like a clenched fist
To sit comfortably under this stone canopy.
Edward Alport is a teacher and occasional writer who occasionally gets published. When he has nothing better to do he posts snarky micropoems on Twitter as @cross_mouse.